“What about Burma? What about the poor Chinese? I’d say somebody had to give Japan a little of their own medicine.”

“Well, I can’t bear it,” Iris said. “I still can’t think about it.”

Aunt Vivian sent her a pitying look and poured more champagne. “Anyway, it’s done, and at least the damned thing is safely in our hands, as a deterrent to future war.”

Sasha smacked his fist into his palm. “But that’s the trouble! No single country should have the means to destroy the world. Who can stand against us?”

“My God, would you rather see the Soviets with the bomb?”

“Well, why shouldn’t they?” Sasha said recklessly, sloppily, red-faced, and Iris realized he was drunk.

“Sasha—” she started.

“The Soviets have only done what they’ve had to do. If you want to make an omelette—”

“Digby, you ass.” Burgess, sharp voice. “Have another drink and be quiet.”

Sasha’s pink face turned pinker. He stared at Burgess for a moment or two—flung his half-finished cigarette over the edge of the schooner—staggered to the champagne and found an open bottle.

THE MOOD WAS RUINED. The sun set, the Isle of Wight passed laboriously to port. The captain kept swearing at the tides and wind—Iris didn’t understand, she’d never liked sailing—and when Aunt Vivian offered advice, he swore at her, too. Sasha got drunker and drunker and brooded over the side of the boat. Iris tried to talk him out of it, but he snarled back and she retreated to Major Davenport.

Nine o’clock passed, then ten. The air grew chill and damp, and they hadn’t brought any coats. Iris sat on a cushion and wrapped her arms around her chest until Davenport gallantly offered his jacket. Sasha wanted to know what the hell was going on, why hadn’t they reached Abingdon’s place by now. He turned to Burgess, who reclined on the neat teak boards of the deck, smoking endless cigarettes and eating all the potted shrimp.

“You!” Sasha said. “This was your goddamn idea.”

“Seemed like a jolly sort of lark at the time. How was I to know about tides?”

“You pretend to know everything about everything else.”

Burgess shrugged. “Can I help being such a bloody clever chap?”

“Clever, my ass.”

The champagne was finished, all eight bottles. Burgess produced a bottle of gin. Aunt Vivian and Iris gave up on the weather and trooped into the tiny deckhouse, followed by Sasha, who slumped on a bench and closed his eyes.

“Iris, my dear,” said Aunt Vivian, “I’m beginning to think your husband’s some kind of Communist. You don’t suppose he’s an old friend of Mr. Chambers, do you?”